Chapter 103 - One Hundred and One: The Great Harvest Assembly and the Dragon Who Ate the Agenda

Chapter 103: Chapter One Hundred and One: The Great Harvest Assembly and the Dragon Who Ate the Agenda

The first rule of organizing a harvest assembly was simple.

Never allow Lumi near the paperwork.

Lin Yue discovered this rule at precisely seven minutes past breakfast, when she entered the main hall and found the tiny dragon sitting in the middle of a pile of invitations.

The invitations were no longer invitations.

They were confetti.

Lumi sat among the scraps, chewing thoughtfully on what appeared to be the corner of a document.

Lin Yue stopped at the doorway.

Lumi stopped chewing.

They stared at each other.

"Tell me," Lin Yue said slowly, "that you have not eaten the invitation to the First Harvest Assembly."

Lumi swallowed.

A long silence followed.

Then the dragon pointed toward the Possibility Weaver.

The Weaver, who had been examining a basket of potatoes, looked up in alarm.

"I did not instruct it to do that!"

"Did you create an alternate invitation?" Lin Yue asked.

"No!"

"Did you replace the original invitation with a copy?"

"No!"

"Did you create a world in which the invitation had never existed?"

The Weaver hesitated.

Lin Yue narrowed her eyes.

"I considered it as a theoretical possibility."

"Do not consider it any further."

The Weaver immediately turned its attention to the potatoes.

"Understood."

Lumi made a small, innocent noise.

Lin Yue picked up the remaining scraps.

"Fortunately, Aster has a copy."

Aster’s projection appeared above the table.

"Correction. I have a digital copy, three printed copies, and a complete record of the original delivery."

Lin Yue smiled.

"Wonderful."

"However, the original delivery included an attached agenda."

Shen Rui entered carrying a wooden box of tools.

"What happened to the agenda?"

Everyone looked at Lumi.

The dragon blinked.

Then it produced a tiny burp.

A faint golden spark escaped its mouth.

Aster paused.

"Agenda recovery is now unlikely."

Shen Rui placed the toolbox on the floor.

"Perhaps we should make Lumi responsible for preparing the refreshments."

Lin Yue considered this.

"That sounds dangerous."

"More dangerous than allowing it near paperwork?"

"Fair point."

Lumi perked up.

Refreshments!

At last, someone recognized its talents.

It immediately rushed toward the kitchen.

"Under supervision!" Lin Yue called.

Lumi skidded to a stop.

The dragon’s tail drooped.

It was becoming increasingly clear that life after the end of cosmic mysteries was filled with rules.

Very unreasonable rules.

By midmorning, the farm had become a gathering place for people from every restored settlement connected to the Heartline.

The first arrivals came through the silver gate carrying baskets of vegetables, jars of honey, bundles of herbs, bolts of cloth, and a suspiciously large quantity of pickled radishes.

The mountain community brought sturdy tools and beautifully carved wooden bowls.

The river settlement brought dried fish, woven nets, and a collection of ingenious water filters.

The Last Garden contributed rare seeds, medicinal plants, and a small crate of apples guarded by Moss.

The valley villages brought flour, beans, and enough fresh bread to make Lin Yue briefly consider abandoning the assembly in favor of lunch.

Taren arrived with a stack of route maps tucked under one arm.

"The northern bridge is repaired," he announced. "The western road is passable, though I strongly advise against taking a heavily loaded cart across the old stone crossing."

"Why?" Lin Yue asked.

"Because the crossing is old."

"That is not a technical explanation."

"It is the explanation I can provide without becoming angry before noon."

Shen Rui patted his shoulder.

"Good. Save your anger for the bridge."

Taren looked at him.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, he laughed.

It was a good sign.

People who had once lived in isolated settlements were beginning to arrive not as frightened strangers, but as neighbors who could complain about bridges, exchange seeds, and argue about the quality of each other’s bread.

That was exactly what Lin Yue wanted.

Not a grand kingdom.

Not a new empire.

A community.

A place where people could choose to meet, learn, disagree, and return home without feeling that they had surrendered their independence.

At the entrance to the farm, Aster displayed a simple wooden sign.

WELCOME TO THE OPEN GARDEN.

Below it, someone had added a smaller notice.

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE DRAGON UNLESS YOU HAVE PERMISSION FROM ITS OWNERS.

Lin Yue stared at the sign.

"Who wrote that?"

Moss raised one straw arm.

"Experience."

Lumi, who was carrying a basket of cakes, looked deeply offended.

"I am not owned," it squeaked.

"Then stop stealing food from people who have not offered it to you," Moss replied.

Lumi considered this.

Then it offered Moss a cake.

Moss took it.

"Progress," Aster recorded.

The first assembly began beneath the ancient tree.

Lin Yue had expected a modest gathering.

She had not expected thirty-seven representatives, eleven additional visitors, four children, three dogs, one goat, and a talking scarecrow who insisted on inspecting the seating arrangements.

The goat was particularly interested in the vegetable baskets.

"Why is there a goat?" Shen Rui whispered.

Lin Yue glanced at the animal.

"Perhaps it has diplomatic ambitions."

The goat immediately ate a leaf from the nearest basket.

"Clearly," Shen Rui said, "it has already begun negotiations."

Lin Yue covered her mouth to hide her laughter.

At the front of the gathering stood a broad wooden table. On it lay the proposed plan for the Open Garden.

The idea was straightforward.

The participating settlements would establish a shared place where people could exchange seeds, learn agricultural techniques, teach practical skills, trade fairly, preserve stories, and train young people in useful crafts.

The garden would have no single ruler.

Each settlement would keep control of its own land, resources, customs, and decisions. Participation would remain voluntary. Shared records would be accessible only according to agreed rules, and no community would be required to surrender knowledge it wished to keep private.

Most importantly, no one would be permitted to use the Heartline to force another settlement into joining.

Lin Yue looked around the gathering.

"These are the principles Shen Rui and I support," she began. "But this garden will not belong to us simply because the first meeting happens here."

A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd.

"We can help you begin. We can share what we have learned. We can provide seeds, tools, and a place to meet while we establish the first facilities."

She paused.

"But if this becomes a place where one group makes decisions for everyone else, then we will have failed before we have even planted the first tree."

An elderly woman from the river settlement raised her hand.

"Who will settle disagreements?"

"Those involved should resolve them first," Lin Yue answered. "If they cannot, representatives chosen by the participating communities can help mediate. Their decisions must be reviewable, and no one should be forced to accept an agreement they never consented to."

"And who will pay for the buildings?"

"Each settlement can contribute what it can afford. Labor, materials, seeds, tools, food, or teaching. Contributions will be recorded openly."

A farmer near the back frowned.

"What if one settlement contributes more than another?"

"Then we record the difference without pretending that every contribution has the same value," Shen Rui said. "But greater wealth should not purchase greater control."

The farmer considered this.

Then he nodded.

Lin Yue smiled.

Good.

This was how trust was built.

Not through a magical system that made everyone agree, but through ordinary conversations in which people were allowed to question, challenge, and improve an idea.

Aster recorded the discussion.

The Possibility Weaver watched quietly.

After a while, it leaned toward Lin Yue.

"I have observed something."

"Only one thing?"

"I am attempting to be concise."

"An admirable effort."

The Weaver ignored the teasing.

"You do not eliminate disagreement."

"No."

"You use it to discover what has been overlooked."

"Sometimes."

"And when people refuse to agree?"

"We keep talking. Or we accept that some decisions belong to individual communities."

The Weaver was silent for a moment.

"Then cooperation is not the absence of conflict."

"Exactly."

The Weaver looked at the representatives, who were now debating whether the shared garden should have a public bakery.

"I think I am beginning to understand."

Aster displayed a note.

OBSERVATION: IMPERFECT AGREEMENT MAY PRODUCE BETTER OUTCOMES THAN FORCED PERFECTION.

The Weaver read it.

Then, very quietly, it said, "I wish I had understood that sooner."

Lin Yue touched its arm.

"So do I."

There was no grand forgiveness speech.

No declaration that everything the Weaver had done was suddenly acceptable.

Its past mistakes remained real, and the consequences could not be erased by a few good intentions.

But it had begun to change.

It was learning to help without taking control.

For now, that was enough.

The first serious disagreement concerned the proposed teaching garden.

The mountain representatives wanted a large area for medicinal plants.

The river settlement wanted water-efficient crops.

The valley farmers wanted fruit trees.

The Last Garden wanted space to preserve rare seeds.

A young representative from a distant village suggested that they simply grow everything.

Moss snorted.

"On what land, young master? The back of a very large spoon?"

The young man turned red.

Lin Yue stepped forward before the argument could grow teeth.

"What if we divide the garden into smaller sections, with a shared demonstration plot in the middle?"

She drew a rough diagram on a sheet of paper.

"Each community can maintain a section for its own plants and methods. The central plot can be used for experiments that anyone may join. If a method works, people can choose to adopt it. If it fails, we record what happened and why."

A woman who specialized in irrigation leaned forward.

"We could compare watering methods."

"And soil mixtures," added a farmer.

"And seed storage," said another.

"Natural pest control," Lin Yue suggested.

"Composting," Shen Rui added.

Moss raised one straw arm.

"Apple security."

Everyone looked at him.

"An essential discipline," he insisted.

The room erupted in laughter.

Even the Cartographer, who had arrived quietly with a bundle of repaired maps, appeared to smile.

The first plan was revised.

Then revised again.

By the end of the discussion, the teaching garden had become a practical arrangement that allowed each community to contribute without surrendering its own traditions.

The shared plot would be voluntary.

Failed experiments would be recorded honestly.

No one could claim that a method was proven merely because it came from a respected settlement.

And no one would be mocked for admitting that an idea had failed.

Lin Yue signed the first page.

Shen Rui signed beneath her.

The representatives added their names one by one.

The Possibility Weaver watched the ink dry.

"Is this how a new future begins?" it asked.

Lin Yue smiled.

"Sometimes."

"Without a prophecy?"

"Preferably."

"Without an ancient artifact?"

"Even better."

"Without someone trying to sacrifice themselves?"

Shen Rui squeezed her hand.

"Especially without that."

The Weaver nodded solemnly.

Then it looked at the goat, which was eating the corner of the proposed garden map.

"Would you like me to create an alternative version of the goat?"

"No!" everyone shouted.

The goat continued eating.

It was, Lin Yue decided, a surprisingly effective test of the community’s ability to cooperate.

By lunchtime, the assembly had produced three agreements, two revised maps, one shared seed inventory, and an argument about whether the public kitchen should serve sweet or savory buns.

The sweet-bun faction had gained the support of Lumi.

The savory-bun faction had gained the support of Moss.

Aster announced that the dispute had become statistically unlikely to resolve before dinner.

Lin Yue stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a basket of dough.

"I have a solution."

Everyone turned toward her.

"We make both."

Silence.

Then the room erupted in cheers.

Shen Rui looked at her with open admiration.

"You have achieved what the Origin could not."

Lin Yue blinked.

"What?"

"Universal agreement."

"Over buns."

"An impressive beginning."

She nudged him with her elbow.

"Don’t get carried away. Someone will complain about the filling."

As if summoned by fate, Lumi popped its head over the counter.

It had flour on its nose and a suspicious bulge in its cheeks.

Lin Yue stared at it.

"Lumi."

The dragon froze.

"Did you eat the filling?"

Lumi shook its head.

A tiny red bean fell from its mouth.

Shen Rui turned away, shoulders shaking.

Lin Yue pointed toward the sink.

"Wash your paws."

Lumi sighed with the exhaustion of someone burdened by an unreasonable life.

But it obeyed.

Mostly.

The afternoon brought an unexpected visitor.

The silver gate shimmered, and a young girl stepped through carrying a small wooden box.

She was perhaps ten years old, with a braid over one shoulder and a determined expression that reminded Lin Yue of herself when she had first arrived in this world.

Behind her stood a woman from one of the restored settlements.

"Lin Yue?" the girl asked.

"Yes?"

"My name is Mei. I met you once, when the silver field opened."

Lin Yue remembered her.

The child who had entered the Possibility Weaver’s world and discovered that an apparently perfect life could still be wrong if it took away her ability to choose.

Mei held out the box.

"I brought something for the Open Garden."

Inside were several packets of seeds, carefully wrapped in cloth.

"My grandmother says these plants used to grow in our valley before the old routes disappeared. We kept a few seeds, but we don’t know how to grow all of them anymore."

Lin Yue opened the first packet.

Tiny brown seeds lay inside.

The second contained pale yellow seeds.

The third held several small, dark seeds with unusual markings.

She looked up.

"These are precious."

Mei nodded.

"But we don’t want them locked away where no one can use them. We want to learn how to grow them again."

The surrounding conversations quieted.

Lin Yue crouched so that she was at the girl’s eye level.

"Then we will start by learning what they need. We’ll test them carefully, record what works, and protect enough seeds to keep the varieties alive."

"Can children help?"

"Of course."

"Even if we make mistakes?"

"Especially then. We just need to make sure the mistakes teach us something rather than destroy all the seeds."

Mei smiled.

"Then I want to be a seed keeper."

Shen Rui watched his wife, his expression soft.

Lin Yue took one of the packets and placed it gently back in the box.

"Welcome to the first seed-keeping team."

Aster immediately recorded the new appointment.

"Team membership: one."

Mei looked delighted.

"Will I get a badge?"

Aster paused.

"Badge production is not currently available."

Shen Rui leaned down.

"I can carve one for you."

"Really?"

"Provided you don’t mind a slightly crooked edge."

Lin Yue gave him a look.

"Perhaps we should allow someone else to carve it."

The crowd laughed.

Shen Rui sighed.

His carpentry reputation, it seemed, had spread faster than the Heartline.

But Mei hugged the box of seeds and looked as if she had just received the greatest gift in the world.

And for her, perhaps she had.

The assembly’s final surprise arrived just before sunset.

Aster’s projection appeared above the meeting table.

"An incoming message has been received from the Origin."

The conversation quieted.

For a moment, old instincts returned. Several representatives stiffened. One man reached for the walking stick beside his chair.

Lin Yue noticed.

She understood.

The Origin had once been responsible for erasing choices, controlling routes, and deciding which possibilities deserved to survive.

Trust could not be restored by an apology alone.

It would have to be earned, one decision at a time.

"Display the message," she said.

A small image appeared.

The Origin’s projection was plain and unadorned.

"I have reviewed the proposals for the Open Garden," it began.

Aster displayed the transcript beneath its image so that everyone could read the exact words.

"I will not request authority over the garden, its records, or the Heartline. I will not alter the settlements’ choices or create alternative versions of their communities."

The Origin paused.

"I would like to offer assistance with restoring damaged archives, identifying lost agricultural records, and comparing historical information with present conditions."

A farmer raised his hand.

"Will you decide which records are correct?"

"No," the Origin replied. "I will identify inconsistencies and explain the available evidence. The people responsible for those records will decide how to proceed."

"And if we refuse your help?"

"I will respect the refusal."

The farmer glanced at the others.

"Can we check your work?"

"Yes."

"Can we ask someone else to check it, too?"

"Yes."

"Can we tell you that you’re wrong?"

The Origin paused longer this time.

"Yes."

Moss folded his straw arms.

"Good. You may be learning something after all."

A small smile appeared on the Origin’s projection.

"I believe I am."

Lin Yue looked around the assembly.

No one was being asked to forget the past.

No one was being asked to surrender judgment.

The Origin had offered help, and the communities were free to decide whether to accept it.

That was the difference.

The mystery of the Origin’s purpose had finally found its answer—not in a perfect system, but in a willingness to accept limits.

The Possibility Weaver stepped forward.

"I would also like to contribute."

Several people eyed it warily.

The Weaver raised both hands.

"Only if invited. I can help visualize possible garden layouts, estimate the space needed for different crops, and demonstrate alternative irrigation designs. I will not create replacements for existing places or alter anything without permission."

Lin Yue nodded.

"Those are useful contributions."

The Weaver looked relieved.

"Then perhaps I can begin with the irrigation plans."

"After Taren checks the maps," Shen Rui said.

"And after the farmers approve the design," Lin Yue added.

"And after we confirm that it does not require everyone to grow turnips," Moss said.

The Weaver looked puzzled.

"Why would I require everyone to grow turnips?"

"Because you seem to have developed an unusual attachment to them," Lin Yue replied.

The Weaver considered this.

"Turnips are dependable."

"They are also not a complete civilization."

Aster recorded the exchange.

COOPERATION STATUS: PROMISING. TURNIP DISPUTE: UNRESOLVED.

For the first time, several representatives laughed at the Origin’s appearance rather than falling silent.

The change was small.

But small changes, Lin Yue had learned, were often the ones that mattered most.

When the meeting ended, the representatives signed the first charter of the Open Garden.

It was not a grand declaration of unity.

It was a practical agreement.

The garden would be shared by choice. Each settlement would retain its independence. Contributions would be recorded openly. Knowledge would be shared with consent. Disagreements would be handled through discussion and fair review. No single intelligence, individual, or settlement would control the network.

The Heartline would remain a connection, not a throne.

The Origin would be subject to oversight.

The Possibility Weaver would offer alternatives without replacing reality.

The Cartographer would help repair maps and teach local route keepers to maintain them.

And the Golden Space would remain Lin Yue’s home and farm—not the capital of a new empire.

When the last signature dried, Taren rolled up the charter.

"We have a beginning."

"Only a beginning," Lin Yue agreed.

Shen Rui slipped his hand into hers.

"Beginnings are manageable."

She glanced at him.

"Are you referring to the Open Garden or the pavilion?"

"Both."

"The pavilion still has a crooked beam."

"I was hoping you had forgotten."

"I have a very good memory."

"An unfortunate trait in a wife."

She smiled sweetly.

"You may submit a formal complaint."

"To whom?"

"Me."

He sighed.

"Then I shall have to accept the ruling."

She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"Wise husband."

"Terrible wife."

"Excellent marriage."

"Agreed."

They were still smiling when a gust of wind swept through the garden.

The newly signed charter fluttered.

One corner lifted from the table.

Taren lunged for it.

Moss caught the other end with a straw hand.

The goat chose that exact moment to charge through the gathering.

Chaos followed.

The goat grabbed the charter.

Taren grabbed the goat.

Moss grabbed Taren.

Lumi, believing this to be an exciting new game, grabbed Moss’s hat.

The Possibility Weaver stared at the tangled group.

"Would an alternate goat be helpful?"

"No!" Lin Yue shouted.

Shen Rui caught her around the waist as she nearly tripped over a basket.

The charter was eventually recovered, though not before the goat had chewed one corner.

Aster scanned the damage.

"Text remains legible."

Taren looked at the goat.

"I am going to put that animal on the route maintenance team."

"Why?" Lin Yue asked.

"Because it has already tested the durability of the charter, the speed of our response, and the structural integrity of three people’s patience."

Moss adjusted his hat.

"Promote it immediately."

Even the Cartographer laughed.

And the first day of the Open Garden ended not with a perfect ceremony, but with a chewed charter, a missing hat, and a community that had discovered it could survive a little chaos without falling apart.

Lin Yue considered this a very promising result.

That night, after the visitors had settled into the guest cottages and Lumi had been firmly separated from the remaining refreshments, Lin Yue and Shen Rui returned to their unfinished pavilion.

The moon hung above the orchard.

Lanterns glowed along the paths.

From the guest garden came the sound of people talking, children laughing, and someone singing a harvest song that appeared to have more verses than any reasonable song required.

Lin Yue sat on the edge of the pavilion platform.

Shen Rui sat beside her.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then he asked, "Are you happy with what we decided?"

She looked toward the distant lights.

"Yes."

"Even though it means more work?"

"Especially because it means more work."

He raised an eyebrow.

"That sounds suspiciously like something a person says before assigning her husband another construction project."

Lin Yue turned to him with an innocent expression.

"Would I do such a thing?"

"Yes."

"Then I suppose you know me very well."

He laughed.

She leaned against his shoulder.

"Today, people came here because they wanted to build something together. Not because an ancient system ordered them to. Not because they were frightened of losing their worlds. They came because they saw something worth trying."

"And you think we can make it work?"

"I think we can help them try."

Shen Rui kissed her hair.

"That is enough for me."

She took his hand and traced the lines of his palm with one finger.

"Do you ever think about Rui’an?"

"Sometimes."

"Does it trouble you that we may never know every detail of his life?"

Shen Rui considered the question.

"Once, I thought that understanding the past might tell me exactly who I was supposed to become."

"And now?"

"Now I think Rui’an left a path open because he wanted someone to have the freedom to choose what came next. If I spend my life trying to become a perfect copy of him, I will have misunderstood the promise."

Lin Yue smiled.

"You are very wise when you aren’t arguing with wooden posts."

"I am wise even when arguing with wooden posts."

"Of course."

He turned toward her.

"I am Shen Rui. I am your husband. I want to grow old beside you, build things that stand straight, repair things that do not, and complain about the weather when our peach trees need rain."

"And steal my blanket?"

"Occasionally."

"And steal kisses?"

"Frequently."

She laughed and kissed him.

"Then I think you understand the past well enough."

He drew her closer.

The First Observer’s burden no longer rested on one person’s shoulders. The Golden Space no longer needed to prove its worth by saving every lost thing. Rui’an’s promise lived on without demanding that Shen Rui abandon himself. The Possibility Weaver had begun to understand the difference between offering a future and forcing one into existence.

And the Origin, once convinced that uncertainty was a flaw to be eliminated, was learning that a world could remain imperfect and still deserve to live.

Their mysteries had not ended because every question had been answered.

They had ended because the answers no longer needed to control their future.

Lin Yue rested her head against Shen Rui’s chest.

"Tomorrow," she murmured, "we repair the pavilion."

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

"And then we inspect the new teaching garden."

"Yes."

"And then we prepare a list of materials for the shared kitchen."

"Certainly."

"And then—"

"Lin Yue."

She looked up.

"Yes, dear husband?"

"Could tomorrow contain one hour in which we do absolutely nothing?"

She pretended to consider it.

"One hour?"

"Two, if the pavilion cooperates."

"Three if you manage to build a straight roof."

He kissed her forehead.

"Then I shall work very hard."

The next morning, the first peach blossom opened.

It appeared on the youngest tree—the same tree that had produced the golden leaf.

Lin Yue noticed it while carrying a basket of seeds toward the teaching garden.

She stopped.

The blossom was small and pale pink, with a faint golden shimmer along its petals.

For a moment, she thought she was seeing a remnant of the old magic.

Then she noticed a second blossom.

And a third.

The branches were beginning to flower.

Aster appeared beside her.

"Unusual flowering time detected."

"Is it dangerous?"

"No."

"Is it an effect of the Golden Space?"

"Possibly. However, the tree is healthy, the soil conditions are favorable, and the recent temperature changes may also have contributed."

Lin Yue smiled.

"So the answer is that we don’t know everything."

"Correct."

"Wonderful."

Aster tilted its head.

"Why is that wonderful?"

"Because now we can observe the tree, learn what happened, and share what we discover. We don’t have to turn every mystery into a crisis."

Aster recorded the response.

NEW PRINCIPLE: SOME QUESTIONS ARE INVITATIONS TO LEARN, NOT WARNINGS OF DANGER.

Shen Rui arrived carrying two cups of tea.

He looked at the blossoming tree.

Then at Lin Yue.

Then at the pavilion in the distance, where one beam had developed a new and deeply suspicious tilt.

"Before you say anything," he began, "I would like to point out that the beam was straight yesterday."

Lin Yue glanced at it.

"Perhaps it misses you."

"I am beginning to suspect the entire orchard is conspiring against me."

She accepted her tea.

"Don’t worry. I shall stand beside you."

His expression warmed.

"Thank you."

"And supervise."

"There it is."

She kissed his cheek.

Beyond them, the first children of the Open Garden were gathering near the teaching plot. Mei was carefully arranging her seed packets. Taren was showing a group of young people how to read route markers. The Cartographer was explaining map symbols to three children who had already discovered several errors in its original drawings.

The Origin had offered to help restore the old agricultural records, under the supervision of representatives from the settlements.

The Possibility Weaver was learning how to construct a rainwater collection model without accidentally creating three alternative ponds.

And Lumi was being taught the difference between a seed cake and a seed intended for planting.

Progress, Lin Yue decided, came in many forms.

Some of it was glorious.

Some of it was messy.

Some of it involved dragons being told not to eat the future.

But all of it mattered.

She took Shen Rui’s hand.

"Ready?"

He looked at the growing garden, the blossoming tree, and the crooked pavilion that would one day shelter people from many different worlds.

"Ready."

Together, they walked toward the children.

Behind them, the golden blossoms shimmered in the morning sun.

Ahead of them lay a new life—one filled with work, laughter, harvests, unexpected visitors, and the occasional stubborn wooden post.

For Lin Yue and Shen Rui, it was the kind of future they had fought so hard to protect.

Not a perfect one.

A real one.

And it was only beginning.

To be continued...